


Patience

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Romantic Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 07:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14564493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Patience

There survives a gradually shrinking nook in your memory sheltering a silly notion you maintained not so long ago that an angel of the Lord, by divine design, existed incapable of experiencing the dizzying all-in rollercoaster sentiment of love like a human. The angel in question, Castiel, you believed to be a celestial creature not inept in feeling profound loyalty or a deep and unfaltering commitment to the duty of protecting those with whom he aligns his faith; rather, you initially thought him a being whose angelic apathy rendered him immune to the heart-pounding, stomach-churning, mind-muddling, fever-spiking infective emotion of romantic love afflicting you.

Comparatively fragile form woven in the embrace of his vessel’s strong limbs, grace radiating through your body to penetrate your bones and soothe your blissfully overwrought nerves as he consecrates your pulse point with a crimson bloom of adoration, that alcove of erroneous assumption grows blessedly dimmer. For when it comes to the capacity for feeling love and demonstrating this love, his ability in regard to you extends unbounded and infinite.

“Castiel,” you simper, sensually stunned senses emerging from the blanket of orgasmic oblivion. You tease your fingers over the bulk of his muscular back and the broad mass of shoulders to tangle them in the wildly ruffled chestnut halo adorning his head.

The seraph’s kiss-creased lips stretch, ticklish scruff setting you squirming as he smiles into the sensitive salt-laced skin beneath your ear. “Hmm?” he exhales a sweltering puff of laughter that serves only to further enflame your affection seared flesh. Your readiness to tumble once more off the precipice of pleasure greatly amuses him.

“My angel,” humming into the hollow of his neck, you endeavor to instill the term of endearment with the yearning igniting in your veins and the longing ache to have him closer still. Legs wrapping around his thick waist to pull his weight down onto you, a desperate needy whimper fills your throat when he shifts, his solid length brushing your center.

“Mmm-,” he groans, the gravelly growl pulsing a shockwave of tingling heat to stoke your core as he nuzzles the shell of your ear, “-mine.” Knuckles lightly tracing the column of your throat and rising up to trail the curve of your cheek, his calloused palm opens to swipe the sweat-saturated hair from your forehead. He presses his mouth to your temple in a tender lingering kiss and leans back to regard your aspect, the blue of his lust-eclipsed irises shining rings of pure admiration. “My _human_ ,” he speaks the words reverently, yet also in fond admonition, rumbling the enunciation so that each shuddering syllable reverberates through his ribcage.

What he means to say is _have patience._ Have patience my beautiful brightly burning soul because there’s something you must understand – I spent billions of years observing my Father’s creation as an outsider, alone in awe, ostracized from this sweet sensation of loving you. Have patience, _my love_ , I intend to take my time with you.

You quiver and whine beneath him, corporal impudence fueling your desire. The fast and hard and brief flickering lifespan of a human instinctively demanding haste when tomorrow isn’t always a promise today will keep.

The ancient angel, however, is not swayed. Lips fastening to yours, swallowing your protests for speed, he moves with unhurried purpose, wanting you to fully fathom the fact that in these most intimate of interactions you are the sum of his forever.

On the sheening canvas of your body – smooth, scarred, freckled, and delicate in parts – he charts the conception of the cosmos. Peppering constellations in kisses, he murmurs adulation between your sighs for the pinpoints of luminance that are your eyes – those glimmering stars by which he finds his course no matter how lost he becomes.

Fingers firmly kneading, teeth and velvet tongue carving out the mountains and dips of your figure, his caresses are the swell of a sea lapping a supple shore, an erogenous eternity of erosion where he revels in the natural naked splendor of your formation. He wanders, rapt in wonder, until your skin sings for him, the thrumming warmth of life springing up to meet his worshipful touches.

Into those same peaks and valleys, he whispers the history of the rise of man. Revolutions unfold in the concave of your clavicle. Whole civilizations evolve and perish and recover in the undulating inches extending from neck to navel. 

At the apex of your thighs – wet, wanton, and welcomingly warm as they part for him – his tongue tells the toe-curling tale of a fallen angel. The twists and turns have you gasping and crying out in triumph for the remarkable story of Heaven and Earth and how a human and angel overcame improbable odds to unite here in the throes of passion.

When he does finally submit to your mewling moans for _more_ , succumb to the pressure building within his own vessel wanting attention and release, and sink into your throbbing sex, the steady sensual thrust of his hips and yours, locked and rocking in juddering tandem, lifts the seraph to insurmountable heights of which he could only dream of if angels deigned to dream. 

And when he falls from on high this time, clutching you close as he hilts and hurtles with you over carnal cliffs into the afterglow abyss, he does so knowing he is no longer alone in this world and with the heartfelt joy that he holds in his arms the soul that gives him wings.


End file.
